Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 191 - The Getaway Ring

VIP免费
2024-12-23 0 0 196.09KB 79 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
THE GETAWAY RING
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I
? CHAPTER II. TWISTED FLIGHT
? CHAPTER III. THE HIDDEN GAME
? CHAPTER IV. THE SILENT THRUST
? CHAPTER V. BROKEN CRIME
? CHAPTER VI. THE CHANCE THAT CHANGED
? CHAPTER VII. STABS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VIII. CRIME'S INFORMANT
? CHAPTER IX. THE JOB TO COME
? CHAPTER X. THE BAITED TRAP
? CHAPTER XI. CRIME IN REVERSE
? CHAPTER XII. THE GETAWAY ROUTE
? CHAPTER XIII. CRIME MOVES ANEW
? CHAPTER XIV. CROOKS IN THE MIDDLE
? CHAPTER XV. JERSEY TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVI. GULLY OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XVII. THE GAME RESUMED
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE PUSH-OVER
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME WITHOUT PROFIT
? CHAPTER XX. THE TRAIL CLOSES
? CHAPTER XXI. THE DOUBLE TRAP
? CHAPTER XXII. DEAD MEN'S TALES
CHAPTER I
SPEED KIRKEL stood in front of the little newsstand and scowled at the life-sized photograph that
glared from a printed placard. The picture was his own, and Speed felt that it didn't do him proper
justice.
For Speed, back in Manhattan after a few weeks' absence, was rated as the city's Public Enemy No. 1.
Along with the portrait, the placard advertised a pictorial magazine containing action shots of the
notorious public enemy. Speed tossed a dime on the counter, gave the newsy a contemptuous grin,
picked up a magazine and headed for the steps leading to an East Side elevated station.
The newsy sat petrified behind his counter. The elevated train had rolled away again before the fellow
came tremblingly from behind his stand, to look for a policeman. Soon, he was gulping to the officer:
"It was Speed Kirkel! When he looked at the picture on my stand, it was just like he was giving himself
the once-over in a mirror! The next thing I knowed, he'd hopped the El. But it was Speed, I'm telling
you!"
During a brief ride on the elevated train, Speed read the magazine. The action shots were the real
McCoy, and they gave Speed full credit. Captions stated that his speed in action was the reason for his
nickname. Swift, daring, like a hawk after its prey, Speed had accomplished some of his boldest
robberies under the very eyes of the police.
That wasn't all. Speed also had an uncanny ability at making a complete getaway. He never left a trail
behind him, and Speed's success was causing other crooks to copy his system.
Such was the magazine's opinion.
The train had reached Speed's station; pulling his felt hat tighter, to hide his glossy jet-black hair, the
public enemy sauntered from the car and descended the long steps to the street below.
The neighborhood was dark and dingy, particularly along the narrow street that Speed chose. Identifying
a parked automobile by its rakish lines, he opened the door and eased inside, to be greeted by three
crouched men who awaited him.
It was the driver who spoke for the trio:
"Kind of slow getting here, Speed."
"Sure I was, Hook," returned Speed, smoothly. "I never act swift until I need to. I've got a rep for it. If
you don't believe it" - he was spreading the pages of the magazine, under the dash light - "take a look at
what these guys have to say.
"They've got it all here, in black and white, with pictures to prove it. They've even figured out how I got
my moniker: Speed. But this hooey about other guys being as good as I am, shows where they're all
wet."
"If you're letting 'em travel your route, Speed," observed Hook, "maybe the bulls will get wise and box
you some night."
"Not a chance," retorted Speed. "I wouldn't be back in town if the line wasn't clear. There's the diff
between me and these other birds. They play a one-shot game; one big job, and they lam for keeps. But
I come back. I've got a rep."
There were approving growls from the back seat, in which Hook joined. But Speed took it that the
driver wasn't as cocksure as the other members of the crew.
"I'll take the chances, Hook," Speed purred. "I always do. That's why I use a new crew on each job.
You and the boys here will get away just like the rest did. So what've you got to beef about?"
Hook swung the car through a maze of corners, across a lighted avenue, and into further darkness. They
were rolling slowly along a straight street, when the driver gave his frank opinion.
"Too many guys know you're back," gruffed Hook. "Wrong guys, like stoolies. The grapevine piped the
word this afternoon. Everybody knows you're staging another job tonight."
"Yeah?" Speed's tone was contemptuous. "But only you guys know what the job is, and where it's going
to be. So what?"
"Somebody might make a good guess and spill it to the bulls -"
"And the closer the coppers get," interposed Speed, with a chuckle, "the faster I travel after I've pulled
the job. Listen, Hook, when it comes to a getaway, I'm the one and original. Anyway, here's our alley" -
he shoved his thumb toward the window on the right - "so swing in easy, and park deep."
WITH the car parked, Speed led the way into the rear of a dimly lighted building and up a flight of
gloomy stairs. Names on the glass panels of darkened offices told that they were in the wholesale jewelry
district, that the building itself was close to Maiden Lane.
A light shone from a third-floor office that bore the name: "Turbin Co." Coolly, Speed opened the door,
beckoned for the others to enter. They were in an outer office; on the far side was a solid door with
metal reinforcement, that bore the single word: "Private."
"Old Ned Turbin is in there," whispered Speed, "expecting a customer who won't show up. He'll be too
foxy to open up" - Speed gestured toward a push button beside the door - "unless he gets the
watchman's signal."
"You know it?" queried Hook.
"No." Speed shook his head. "But I know something better. I know what was done to that big lock
once, by some smart gazebos who never finished the job they started."
The lock was an intricate one, set in a heavy circular plate. From his pocket, Speed produced a disk that
had sharp needle points projecting from one side. Setting the disk against the lock, he found the exact
spot he wanted. Speed pressed the needle points toward the lock.
To the astonishment of Hook and the others, the needles entered the solid plate!
It was Hook who suddenly understood. He'd heard of the stunt once before - drilling tiny holes to get at
the tumblers. After that, the game was to plug the holes with wax and leave the lock for some future time,
when chances for big burglary would be ripe.
Someone else had rigged this game, and Speed Kirkel had inherited it. He even had the needle disk that
did the trick, when needed. Leaning forward, Hook heard the tumblers give a muffled click under
Speed's sustained pressure.
The heavy door swung inward; Speed was the first across the threshold. He was swifter than his pals in
another move, as well. Snakily, Speed whipped a revolver from his pocket as he took his first step.
His hand veering with a rapid twist, the public enemy swung the glittering .38 straight for a dry-faced,
white-haired man who sat behind a desk that fronted a large safe.
In all his fifty years of business, old Edward Turbin had never found himself so nonplused.
Emergency reduced Turbin to his last resort. His desk drawer, half opened, held a revolver which he
always kept at hand. But even his grab for the weapon was defeated.
Speed had the jeweler covered, and he backed the fact with a snarl that meant business. Turbin's hand
stopped halfway to the drawer, trembled, then moved upward.
"Good enough," chuckled Speed, as he approached the desk. "Here, old-timer, take a gander at this."
He slapped the opened pictorial magazine in front of Turbin. "You have heard of Speed Kirkel. Take a
good look at his picture, then lamp me.
Turbin complied. He quickly convinced himself as to the raider's identity. Pocketing the jeweler's gun,
Speed gestured toward the safe with his own.
"Nice box you've got there, Turbin," purred Speed. "It would be kind of hard to dent it. But it wouldn't
be tough to dent you" - he thrust close, pressing the gun muzzle against Turbin's ribs - "and if you don't
want a gutful of slugs, you'll get busy with those dials!"
WITH a wince that almost cracked his dryish face, Turbin turned to the safe and began to manipulate the
combination. Hook and his two pals spread out, ready with their guns, for they considered this a ticklish
situation.
Not with Speed Kirkel.
The threats that he was purring in Turbin's ear had the tone of velvet, but the cut of a knife edge. When
the old jeweler swung the safe door open, he shrank away fearfully, knowing that anything resembling a
false move would mean his doom.
Pushing Turbin under the guns of the others, Speed helped himself to the contents of many jewel boxes,
dangling necklaces before he pocketed them, showing fistfuls of rings to his pals, that they might estimate
their worth.
"This haul will bring us fifty grand," chuckled Speed. "The fellow who fences this stuff for me has sense
enough to pay plenty. He knows what's good for him, just like Turbin does."
As he spoke, Speed shot a glance at the old jeweler, saw the gleam of interest that came to Turbin's
watery eyes. From what Speed had said, Turbin felt that the police might gain a clue to some shady
jeweler who went in for peddling stolen goods. Speed saw the gleam, and grinned.
"By the way, Turbin," Speed remarked, "I need some dough, too. Got any handy?"
"Not much," began the jeweler, speaking through parched lips. "You'll find some in the safe -"
Speed was already looking for the cash. This time, Hook and the others were objecting. They wanted to
be on their way, but Speed shook his head. Digging deep among papers and empty boxes, he came out
with what he wanted - a small bundle of cash.
Calmly, Speed counted the money. It came to twelve hundred dollars, more than he expected. Laying the
bundle on the desk, he pulled a wad from his own pocket and began to count off more. He stopped at a
total of five thousand dollars.
"Five grand," chuckled Speed. Then, his tone cryptic: "That's for traveling expenses. Nice of Turbin, to
cough over some dough to help."
Gripping the money in one hand, gun in the other, he turned about and motioned the remaining crooks
toward the door.
"Get going, guys," Speed told them. He was covering Turbin as he spoke. "I'm going to give it."
Quivering, old Turbin began to beg for his life. His plea might have passed with Hook and the other
listeners, but it didn't impress Speed Kirkel.
"You're a smart old geezer," snarled Speed. "I sounded you out, when I made that crack about fencing
the sparklers. You're too smart, Turbin; that's why I'm going to rub you out!"
Turbin was listening. He was staring, with eyes that reminded Speed of a dying fish. But those eyes
weren't agonized, as they looked past Speed and the surrounding hoodlums. Despite their bulge, Turbin's
eyes had a gleam again, and it expressed hope. So did the long-drawn sigh that escaped the old jeweler's
parched throat.
Following a quick hunch, Speed wheeled about. He saw the sight that had produced the change in
Turbin. Crooks were no longer alone with their victim. In the doorway stood a silent newcomer, a tall
figure clad in black.
The intruder wore a slouch hat; his shoulders were draped with a flowing cloak. Of his features, only
eyes were visible; they had a piercing burn that signified a mighty challenge. A challenge that this fighter
could back, for in his gloved fists he held a pair of .45 automatics that dwarfed the revolvers of the
opposition.
A snarl of recognition came from Speed. He knew the identity of the black-clad challenger. Speed
Kirkel, past master of crime, was faced by the living power that conquered evil.
The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. TWISTED FLIGHT
THE laugh that throbbed through the strong room was more than another token of The Shadow's
identity. It was a sinister tone of mirth, one that carried mockery with challenge. It reached the ears of
Speed's followers before they saw The Shadow, and it held them quite as petrified as Turbin had been,
earlier.
Hook, his gun hand trembling, looked toward Speed. He saw the scowl covering Speed's face, knew
that it was an expression of mere bravado, for Speed's fingers were loosening, as if to drop the gun.
Speed had been in jams like this before, but always with the police. His vaunted swiftness wasn't enough
to help him with The Shadow.
Guns were already thudding the floor, dropped by the two thugs who stood with Hook. Burlier, tougher
than the others, Hook clung to his own weapon for a hesitating moment, then spread his fingers.
In the moment that it took Hook's gun to strike the floor, the unexpected happened. Old Turbin provided
the step that produced the rapid change. Turbin's safe had an alarm inside it. Thinking that his move
would aid The Shadow, the jeweler made a dive for the switch.
To reach it, he swung in back of Speed. With the skill that made him deadly in an emergency, Speed
thrust one foot backward under cover of the desk. His foot locked with Turbin's; before The Shadow
had a chance to drive forward, both men were rolling on the floor.
Turbin was rising, grabbing at the alarm lever, with Speed huddled beneath him, just as The Shadow
lunged forward. Landing his forearm on the desk, The Shadow took a vaulting leap. Clearing the desk,
he hooked his free arm around Turbin's neck and literally wrenched the old man to safety.
An alarm dingled as Turbin's hand made a last claw at the switch; then the jeweler was floundering in one
direction, The Shadow diving in the other.
Speed was stabbing with his gun, finding nothing but the desk. Half squatted in the safe, he was
wondering where The Shadow had gone. It would have gone badly with Speed if Hook and the others
hadn't seen the direction of the cloaked fighter's whirling dive.
Roused by the alarm, further emboldened by Speed's shot, the frantic trio threw themselves bare-handed
on The Shadow, hoping to settled him through sheer brawn. They were met by flaying automatics that
served as heavy cudgels.
One thug took a skull-cracking blow that flattened him.
Launching from the safe front, Speed cleared the desk in a flying dive, carrying the lamp with him. The
light went out as it struck the floor; then The Shadow's gun was tonguing at a target that had gone.
Once again, Speed Kirkel was trying the thing that had made him famous: rapid flight.
Speed reached the door to the outer office, Hook close behind him. A third man followed. He was
Hook's remaining pal. He made the mistake of swinging about to take pot shots at The Shadow. Framed
in the doorway, the thug jolted as a big gun thundered.
The Shadow was using bullets to lash one crook from the path, so that he could get at the others; but the
thug floundered right in the doorway, his body making a temporary shield for the pair that had gone
ahead.
By the time The Shadow reached the doorway and hurdled the slumping form that blocked it, Speed and
Hook were outside in the hallway, making for the stairs.
The Shadow would have won that chase if Turbin hadn't made the mistake of sounding the alarm.
The moment they reached the ground floor, Speed and Hook were greeted by shots from the front door.
The watchman was there, a couple of policemen with him. Their hasty shots ricocheted along the walls of
the hallway.
Escaping the bombardment as they ran toward the rear, the fleeing crooks were doubly lucky. The
gunfire served as a barrage that The Shadow could not pass to continue his pursuit.
More luck followed. As the officers dashed through the hallway, the watchman gave a yell and pointed to
the stairway. Too near the bottom to turn, The Shadow was visible, a vague form on the steps.
Thinking him another foe, the cops sprang for him, shooting as they came. Their aim, fortunately, proved
too high, thanks to The Shadow's own strategy.
Dropping as the guns blasted, The Shadow made a rolling dive straight down the steps, came up with a
lunge beneath the flashing revolvers. A moment later, the officers were in a pell-mell tumble that carried
them from the stairs, out to the middle of the hall.
The watchman was at the rear door, yelling and beckoning; more police were coming in from the front.
HARDLY had the clatter of heavy feet faded from the stairway, before a square door opened
underneath the steps. Out from a little storage compartment came The Shadow.
He had hit the door of the closet while twisting from his grapplers; finding it loose, he had rolled inside,
pulling the door partly shut behind him.
With a chase under way, The Shadow had seen no advantage in extending greetings, or giving
explanations to the police. Having waited until the way was clear, The Shadow sped out through the
front; there, he blinked a green-lensed flashlight, that promptly brought a cab.
The cab was The Shadow's own, piloted by Moe Shrevnitz, the speediest hackie in Manhattan. Knowing
that Speed Kirkel was in town, learning that Edward Turbin had remained late in his office, The Shadow
had come here in his special cab on the hunch that trails might cross.
With Moe at the wheel, The Shadow was well equipped to overtake the rapid-moving Speed; for this
cab was geared to travel at an unusual clip.
But the delay had given Speed a great start on one of his famous getaways. As the cab swung the corner,
neither Moe nor The Shadow could sight the fleeing car.
All that they saw were police cars, swinging another corner a few blocks ahead. The only course was to
follow the chase that the law had started.
Up ahead, Speed Kirkel was at the wheel of the fleeing car, yanking the rakish vehicle around corners. It
was in accord with previous plans that Speed should take the wheel for the getaway; but Hook wasn't at
all pleased by the arrangement.
Hook was growling for Speed to hit the straightaway, and step on the gas, claiming that the rakish car
could outdistance all pursuit. But Speed kept to his twisting tactics. His purr carried a snarly note, as he
told Hook:
"Keep your shirt on! And be ready with the gat. Only, don't start shooting until I say so. We're sitting
pretty!"
"Yeah?" returned Hook. "I thought this was going to be a perfect getaway. What about the two pals we
left back at Turbin's?"
"Pals?" queried Speed. "You mean palookas! They stuck their necks out, and got what was coming to
them. I said that when we once started a getaway, we'd make it."
"O.K.," grumbled Hook. "But the chase is getting tougher. There's a cab just cut in behind us, to pick up
the trail for the cops."
Speed shrugged, asked: "Has the cab got a couple of lights on the top - one at each front corner?"
"Yeah," returned Hook. "What's that got to do with it?"
"A lot," answered Speed. "Keep your lamps peeled and tell me what happens next. But lay off any
shooting."
They were speeding past the open front of a small side-street garage, the taxicab close behind them.
Hook heard a man shout, caught the roar of a motor from within the garage. Staring back, he saw a
patrol car whip out into the street.
"Look!" gulped Hooks. "The cops - they're in it! I gotta start shooting, Speed -"
By way of interruption, Speed reached across and yanked the gun from Hook's fist. Then, with a long
sweep of the wheel, he swung the car around a corner. His face shoved half through the window, Hook
stared goggly-eyed at what happened.
The taxi with the top lights kept straight ahead at full speed, with the patrol car whining after it. Shots rang
out along the street; more sirens shrieked, as other patrol cars followed the chase. The sounds faded into
the distance.
The intercepting patrol car had followed the decoy taxi, taking the chase in the wrong direction. Speed
was driving calmly on his way, totally unfollowed!
IT was clever, that ruse, as later events proved.
Along the route of the false chase, guns were shooting from the front patrol car, the one that had sped out
from the garage. Other patrol cars, farther back, couldn't see what happened up ahead.
Then, very suddenly, the front patrol car veered to the curb, acting as if disabled. The way was clear for
the others, ones that had started the chase clear back at Turbin's building.
Seeing the speeding taxi up ahead, they overhauled it. When they fired at close range, the cab's brakes
shrieked, the vehicle stopped at the curb.
In the cab the officers found a whimpering driver, who couldn't understand how he had gotten in such a
mix-up. He said that he'd seen another car turn a corner, some distance back. Maybe that was the car
the police wanted.
While the officers were quizzing the whimpering cabby, another cab pulled up. Moe was at the wheel,
The Shadow was peering from a rear window. Hearing snatches of the conversation, The Shadow gave
a calm-toned command. Moe swung his cab about and started back along the trail.
The Shadow had remembered the disabled patrol car. It was pulling from the curb as they returned.
Noting the speed of Moe's approaching cab, the patrol car whisked away and turned a corner. The
Shadow ordered Moe to do the same.
Half a minute later, a strange pursuit was in progress. A police car was in full flight, with a taxicab on its
trail! Such an oddity would have been explainable had the patrol car contained wounded officers, but that
wasn't the case.
Men were leaning from the fleeing patrol car, shooting back at the cab that pursued them. Leaning from
the cab was a black-garbed figure, his cloak trailing in the wind, jabbing shots that came uncomfortably
close to the patrol car's uniformed crew!
Other patrol cars happened to spy the pursuit. The fleeing car had taken to an avenue for the express
purpose of attracting attention.
By the end of a dozen blocks, police cars were uncomfortably close behind Moe's cab, shooting for the
black-clad gunner who was keeping close within the window.
Wails of the fleeing car's siren seemed to call for help. When the shriek was answered by a patrol car
that cut in from up ahead, The Shadow's chance of further pursuit was gone. He was boxed in, instead of
the fleeing car that The Shadow alone knew to be a fake.
Picking an alleyway, The Shadow pointed it out to Moe. The cab made a sudden swerve, whipped
between two trucks and reached the narrow thoroughfare. Reversing his course at the next avenue, Moe
eluded converging patrol cars and found a maze of helpful streets that he threaded in artful fashion.
When crime moved again, The Shadow would be ready to pick up its course along strange paths that
would account for the mysterious disappearances of Speed Kirkel and other public enemies.
CHAPTER III. THE HIDDEN GAME
POLICE COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON was very fond of two things. One was a
comprehensive police report; the other, a double-thick lamb chop.
He was listening to one and gnawing the other, as he sat in the grillroom of the exclusive Cobalt Club the
day after Speed Kirkel had made his latest spectacular escape.
The man who produced the comprehensive report was Inspector Joe Cardona, a swarthy, poker-faced
official, who rated highly with Commissioner Weston. Cardona had made a complete summary of the
case in question.
"I've quizzed the guy that drove that decoy cab," declared Cardona. "His name is Storber, and he sticks
to his story. But I still think he's a phony."
Weston nodded agreement, and emphasized it by wagging the demolished lamb chop in Cardona's
direction.
"Storber admits he was paid to follow Speed's car," declared the commissioner. "We ought to arrest him
as an accessory."
"But we can't prove it," asserted Cardona. "His story is too good. Somebody left this note" - Joe spread
a typewritten sheet of paper - "at a hashhouse where Storber eats. There was ten bucks with it."
Weston read the note. It simply called on Storber to be at a given corner and follow a certain car when it
came along, to pick up a passenger from it.
"Storber should have reported this!" stormed Weston. "Furthermore, when Speed's car went by in flight,
he should have known that something was wrong."
Cardona didn't agree with either point.
"You can't blame a hackie for wanting to make money," he told the commissioner, "and what's more,
Speed wasn't going fast when he went by Storber's cab. According to Storber, he was messed up in the
thing before he knew it."
"And you believe him?"
"No." Cardona was quite emphatic. "But I can't shake his story. My hunch is that he deliberately kept on
his way after Speed turned off somewhere. But hunches don't count, commissioner."
Subtly, Cardona was rubbing in an important point. The ace inspector was noted for his hunches, and
usually, the police commissioner disagreed with them. This was one time when Weston was on
Cardona's side of the fence, so it was Joe's turn to be conservative.
"Let's figure Storber as an accomplice," suggested Cardona, as though making a concession. "At most,
he's just a stooge. What we've learned is this: Speed and other smart crooks have used taxis to decoy us
every time they make a getaway. But last night was the first time we found it out. What we ought to do is
forget Storber and look to the future."
The argument sounded logical to Weston. Cardona carried it further.
"Storber was driving a Nitelite cab," said Joe. "There's a lot of those hacks on the street; they look fishy
to me. So I've gone after the man higher up."
"Who is he?" asked Weston, eagerly.
"Garret Fenmore," returned Cardona, "the guy that owns the cab company. I sent word for him to come
over here, so that we could talk to him."
Someone was entering the grillroom. Hearing footsteps, Cardona swung about, expecting to see
Fenmore. Instead, he observed a hawk-faced arrival named Lamont Cranston, who was a close friend of
the police commissioner.
Neither Weston nor Cardona realized that behind the imperturbable face of Lamont Cranston lay the
brain of The Shadow. They simply took Cranston for what he appeared to be - a wealthy club member,
with an occasional flare for adventure.
WHILE waiting for Fenmore, Weston reviewed Cardona's evidence, hoping that Cranston would give an
opinion. His calm-mannered friend agreed that Storber's part looked shady, but would lead the law
nowhere.
"If you shake Storber's testimony," spoke Cranston, in an even-toned manner, "you will probably learn
that he received a phone call in addition to the note. We may assume that he was instructed, verbally, to
carry pursuers from the trail.
"Maybe the fellow has a bad past and was picked on that account. But you may be sure of one thing,
commissioner. No crook of Speed Kirkel's intelligence would reveal his full plans to a cabby like
Storber. If you bother with Storber further, you will still be following a decoy."
As Cranston completed that statement, footsteps announced the arrival of Garret Fenmore. The owner of
the Nitelite Cab Co. was a tall, long-faced man, whose baldish head had an egg-shaped contour.
Fenmore shook hands in solemn fashion, but behind the straight lines of his face he betrayed annoyance.
Once seated, he stared with sharp eyes from Weston to Cardona, occasionally including Cranston in his
roving gaze. As the commissioner took up the Storber case, Fenmore's lips moved as though wanting to
interrupt. But it wasn't until Weston was through that Fenmore delivered his hot outburst.
"I take it," he boomed, "that you accuse me of running a fleet of taxicabs for the express purpose of
aiding and abetting the flight of criminals like Speed Kirkel."
"Not at all," snapped Weston, promptly. "We merely charge you with laxity in choosing your employees.
We believe that you may have others on your pay roll as doubtful as Storber."
"And that I deliberately hired them?"
"I wouldn't say that, Mr. Fenmore. But since you've put the question" - Weston's gaze was as sharp as
Fenmore's - "suppose you answer it for us."
Fenmore's lips began to twitch. He mopped his broad forehead with a handkerchief.
"It's outrageous!" he sputtered. "Absolutely outrageous! Why... why" - he paused, dug into his pocket for
a batch of papers - "take a look at these, commissioner. Full reports on every cabby who drives a
Nitelite. We always demand recommendations.
"If any of our men are crooks, it's not our fault. We look into their affairs as far as we are able. I have
already made a new rule, which was broadcast among the men today, stating that none are to take fares
in advance, as Storber did, nor to accept any kind of questionable offers."
Weston grunted. He felt that Fenmore was locking the stable after the horse was stolen. Thinking of
stables made him remember garages. He decided to give Fenmore an object lesson.
"Let us take the opposite of Storber's case," decided Weston, reaching for one of Cardona's report
sheets. "Here we have the testimony of a man named Winter, who works for the Blue Star Garage Co.
He was on duty last night in one of the company's garages, when a police patrol car arrived in the rear
摘要：

THEGETAWAYRINGMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII.TWISTEDFLIGHT?CHAPTERIII.THEHIDDENGAME?CHAPTERIV.THESILENTTHRUST?CHAPTERV.BROKENCRIME?CHAPTERVI.THECHANCETHATCHANGED?CHAPTERVII.STABSINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVIII.CRIME'SINFORMANT?CHAPTERIX.THEJOBTOCO...

展开>> 收起<<
Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 191 - The Getaway Ring.pdf

共79页,预览16页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：79 页 大小：196.09KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

高考理综 人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 79
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注